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Smalltime (Part Six)
Woo boy. In front of me stood a gauntlet of baddies, ready to tear me apart. They all had the same zombie-like gaze, and shared bleeding left hands, signifying their alliance with whoever was looking for the Ringer. In keeping with my policy of never throwing the first punch, I tried to make a run through the crowd straight for the offices at the back of the building. The crowd closed in on me rather quickly, a thousand hands grabbing for me, a dozen different abilities overwhelming my senses: scathing-hot burns, freezing-cold touches, fists of metal and rock, claws, talons, all beginning the process of tearing me apart. So what did I do? I dropped to the floor and quickly made a carbon barrier, separating myself from the deadly grip of the mass of criminals. These criminals may have been deadly in close proximity and in such numbers, but none of them were high-level threats, otherwise they wouldn’t be at this old precinct here. I wasn’t hurt too bad, just some minor lacerations. Still, the criminals continued to surround my temporary safe haven, so I had to think fast before I ran out of energy. I recalled my run-in with the scar-faced fellow earlier in the day. I didn’t remember a lot of things about that confrontation, but I thought it might work to my advantage. With what strength I wasn’t using to hold my barrier up, I started sending out waves of anxiety in a circular pattern around me. Those closest to me stopped trying to get through my barrier, stood up and grabbed their heads, as if in pain. Some let out a screech. One sounded like they yelled “mother”. I stood up, pushing my barrier further and further out, trying to give myself more space. The horde was pressed back, some pinned between my barrier and the walls. Then, I released the carbon back into the air, and focused all my energy toward projecting anxiety in all directions. My strategy worked; the horde all howled out in pain, clutching their heads, some falling to the ground in agony, until all of them seemed to pass out. I checked one’s pulse to make sure I didn’t kill the whole group. He was alive; they were all incapacitated. Now knowing for sure I didn’t kill Scarface earlier, I decided to continue to the back of the station. Upon reaching the offices, I discovered Morinth and Oldstrong, surrounded by unconscious criminals, their palms bleeding onto the concrete floor. The peculiar thing about this scene was that Oldstrong was tied to a chair, and Morinth was beating the shit out of him, for reasons I had yet to ascertain. “Morie, what in the hell are you doing?!” I yelled. “Watch out, kid!” Oldstrong yelled. She turned around to look at me, very slowly. She stared into my eyes with a fixed gaze, not saying anything, her jaw slightly slack. I looked down at her left hand; it was bleeding. Another one, I thought, but this time it was someone I actually knew. She came at me with the speed of a black panther, arms forward, ready to tear my head off. Just before she reached me, I raised another carbon barrier and stepped back. Her arms punctured the barrier, but the rest of her was stopped. Using the barrier, I trapped her against the wall, then reduced the carbon to just pinning her wrists and ankles. She thrashed around furiously, trying to break free, but to no avail. “WHERE IS THE RINGER?” she shouted. “She’s been asking me that for the past half hour,” Oldstrong said behind me. He spat blood onto the floor. “I’m convinced that’s not really her up in that little head of hers.” I looked into her eyes. Morie wasn’t in there. I saw the exact same look that Scarface had given me, down to the color of her eyes, which had changed from their usual black to a disturbing sort of brown, which almost seemed to glow gold in the dark of the hallway. Someone brainwashed her, I thought; the same thing must have happened to Scarface. I pried her left hand open, revealing another letter “N” carved into her palm. “You aren’t Morinth. Who are you?” I asked. “Tell me where the Ringer is,” she demanded. “That’s not how this is going to work, honey. Who are you?” “That’s not important, Aaron,” the creature in Morinth’s head replied. “What did you just call me?” “Aaron Oliver, age twenty-three, born in Connecticut, moved to New York City at a young age…” How the hell did they know all of that? “…father never approved of your desire to write…” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was enough to drive someone mad. “…first kiss was with Regina Gallagher outside a diner at age fifteen, but she didn’t like you, all she wanted was cab money…” Who could be so powerful as to take over the minds of dozens of people all at once? “…witnessed the death of your father at the hospital, his last look into your eyes being that of utter disappointment―“ “ENOUGH,” I yelled, readying myself to send an excruciating wave of anxiety straight into her head. “Any last words before I liberate my friend here?” “Expect me,” the creature in Morinth’s head said. I didn’t need to blast the bastard out of Morinth’s mind. The faint glow left her eyes, and she went limp. I checked her pulse and breathing; she was still alive, and it appeared that whoever was up in her head was gone for the time being. I did away with the carbon restraints, and sat her down against the wall, before sitting down right next to her. I just had the most exciting two days of my post-apocalyptic career. Someone who can control over a dozen people’s minds? Looking for the Ringer? What the hell was going on? All I knew was that I had to find out. I could use some coffee, I thought. END OF PART SIX Smalltime written by Mister Z CLICK HERE for PART ONE CLICK HERE for PART TWO CLICK HERE for PART THREE CLICK HERE for PART FOUR CLICK HERE for PART FIVE CLICK HERE for THE FINALE